


Indefensible

by unsettled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alpha Tony Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Bonding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, First Time, Guilt, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Peter Parker, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, Parent/Child Incest, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Praise Kink, Scenting, Smut, So many consent issues, Underage Sex, buckets of guilt and angst, peter is 16, terrible decisions all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: "Kiddo," Tony says slowly, "that's not— you're not asking for— I—"Peter closes his eyes, his whole face scrunching up, his whole body curling up a little before he starts rocking against the bed again. "Please," he begs, "I just— I'm scared Dad, and I just— please, please. You're— I trust you, please.”Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tony thinks desperately, how could he possibly— Peter's his son, he's barely sixteen, there is just, nothing about this that's even approaching alright, nothing about this that would be acceptable or understandable under any circumstances; how could he even consider it?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 520





	Indefensible

**Author's Note:**

> In which Peter is actually Tony's son, someone should have planned better, everything is awful, and you'd better have double checked those tags.

"Dad?"

Tony paused. Did he— huh, he thought he’d heard something. Maybe Peter?

"Dad?"

There it was again; yeah, that was Peter alright.

"Yeah? What's up, kiddo?"

“Um,” Peter says, and Tony— he’d been about to knock on Peter’s door and stick his head in, see what’s up, but he hesitates. Yeah, Peter called for him, but maybe he doesn’t want to actually see him; things have been a little tense, ever since that giant mess with Liz’s dad and the lying and the fighting and the spider bite Peter hadn’t even  _ told _ him about and— 

Really, should he have been that surprised when he found out? Like somehow  _ his _ son wasn’t going to figure out some way to be a superhero? Honestly, what had he been expecting, something about his life to be normal?

He just hadn’t thought Peter would lie to him, would try to hide something so big. 

It’s just— things have been strained, Peter closed off from him in a way he never has been, and Tony’s not entirely sure where things lay any more. 

"I— Dad, I'm—" There's a little pause, sort of a— sniffle? "I need, I need help, please, I'm sorry."

"Hey," Tony says, turning back and putting his hand on the doorknob of Peter's room, and it hurts, more than a little, that Peter would hesitate to ask for his help now. That Tony’s fucked up that badly. "It's ok, of course I'll help you, what's wrong—"

The sight hits him first: Peter sprawled out on his bed, completely naked, his hands fisted in the sheets, knees up and spread wide. The smell hits him just a second later, like a smack in the face, hard and sharp and intoxicating. 

Heat. An omega, in heat.

He slaps his hand over his mouth and nose, trying to block it out at least a little. Well, this is awkward as hell. Sure, he'd thought maybe, maybe Peter would turn out to be an omega; well, no maybe more like fifty-fifty that or a beta, but either way he hadn't expected a presentation heat yet, not at barely sixteen. Hadn’t done anything to prepare for it, or prepare his son for it, really, and apparently neither had Peter.

Peter turns his face towards Tony, red and teary eyed, dazed. "Dad," he says, choked, "I'm sorry, I didn't— I didn't know, I didn't realize, I'm sorry—" He can't seem to get a full sentence out at all, which isn’t a good sign.

"What, no, don’t apologize, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for," Tony says. "It's fine, Peter, you're going to be fine. Don't panic, ok?"

"I just," Peter says, "I'm just— I need, I need— everything hurts, feels weird and wrong and I want, I need—" he breaks off with a groan, shifting on the bed, and another wave of that scent hits Tony.

Tony shudders, mouth going dry, because regardless of what his brain knows, his body does not give a fuck that Peter is his son, is completely off limits. Omega, it prods him, an omega that needs you,  _ needs  _ you.

God, it’d be really nice to  _ not _ be an alpha right now. 

He shakes his head; he'd take a deep breath to try and settle himself, but with Peter's scent so strong, that's probably not the best idea he’s ever had. And he’s had a lot of terrible ideas.

Peter whines again, his hips rising, Tony's gaze drifting towards them and catching on the sight of Peter's cock, red and hard and wet, fuck.

He tears his eyes away and steps further into the room, just as Peter lets out a noise more like a sob. "Dad," Peter whispers, his throat working, "I'm sorry."

"Oh hell, kid," Tony says, moving to crouch next to the bed, “you don't have to be sorry, Peter, it's ok, it's not your fault. Come on, we'll get you through this. Is there someone you want me to call, see if they can help?"

Peter shakes his head, sniffing. "No one,” he mutters.

"Seriously? Surely some of your friends would be willing to help," Tony says. "I mean, I know, I get it, it's super embarrassing, but every omega goes through this sort of stuff, it's ok."

Peter shakes his head again. "None of them are alphas," he says, then bites his lip, pushing his body back into the bed, rocking.

"Ok," Tony says slowly, "ok, well, uh," Peter sniffs, and closes his eyes tight. "Shhh," Tony says, reaching up and brushing Peter’s hair off his brow, where it's sweaty and stuck to his skin. "You're gonna be ok. I can call someone, get a professional that does this sort of thing, one of those heat assists. They'll take care of you, I'm sure they've got alphas that are good with this sort of first— this sort of situation. Then you'll just have to hang on until they get here, and you can handle that, yeah?"

"Dad," Peter whispers, "I—" he turns his head away, cutting himself off.

"What is it?"

"I— I don't want a stranger," Peter says, his voice cracking. "I don't— I don't know them, I don't want— I don't want anyone to see me like this, I don't want— I'm scared, please, I don't want that." He shivers, pushing his head back into the bed, his jaw clenching. “And what if— what if I do something, if they see something, if I'm not careful enough, I don't think I can be careful enough and I might hurt them, Dad what if I—”

Ah, fuck, he's breaking Tony's heart. More, worse, churning his stomach with the bitter misery pouring off him. "I know, I get that," he says. "I do, Peter, it's better with someone you trust, I know. But look, there aren't a lot of options here, and even if you don't know them, I'm sure they'll take good care of you." They'd better, or he'd— 

He brushes his hand through Peter's hair again. “You won't hurt them," he says, "I believe that. I know you've got better control than you think."

Peter shakes his head, then turns it to face Tony, half hiding in the rucked up sheets. His eyes are barely open, just little slits, watching Tony. "Dad," he says softly, almost a whine, reaching for Tony and latching onto his arm. "Dad, please. Please."

That's— he's not—

"Kiddo," Tony says slowly, "that's not— you're not asking for— I—"

Peter closes his eyes, his whole face scrunching up, his whole body curling up a little before he starts rocking against the bed again. "Please," he begs, "I just— I'm scared Dad, and I just— please, please. You're— I trust you,  _ please.” _

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tony thinks desperately, how could he possibly— Peter's his  _ son, _ he's barely sixteen, there is just, nothing about this that's even approaching alright, nothing about this that would be acceptable or understandable under any circumstances; how could he even consider it?

Never mind that his body clearly is considering it, how he's already hard and spilling scent, that's just— instincts, biological imperatives, old outdated bullshit. He's not going to fall back on that as some sort of excuse, he's better than that.

Peter shudders and lets go of him, turning his head away. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice thick, wet, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to— I'm so sorry Dad, I don't know what I'm thinking, I'm just, I'm just so scared and I want so much and I can't think, I'm sorry," obviously taking Tony's silence as a rejection.

How can he not, Tony thinks, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, all mixed up with the way his blood is heating, the way he's already unconsciously leaning closer to Peter. How can he possibly not when Peter is begging like that, when Peter is crying; how can he possibly ignore his baby boy telling him he's scared and just hand him over to some stranger that Peter has already said he doesn't want? How could he possibly, when he can take care of Peter, when he can help him and can make it safe and ok and not terrifying for him? If— if it doesn't bother Peter, does it matter that much if it's so fucking wrong he can barely even stand to think it? No one will ever have to know, and it'll never, ever happen again, and it has nothing, nothing to do with how he's wanting,  _ wanting; _ he's just— he has to make things right for Peter.

He can't make the mistake of rejecting what Peter's trying to tell him again, can't dismiss what Peter wants as too immature and thoughtless, not when his kid has been proven at least half right each time, again and again. He can't ignore what Peter wants and make this rift worse and worse, even if this might make it unbridgeable.

"Hey, shhh, shh," he says, softly as he can, “it's ok, baby, it's ok, I'm not upset, please don't cry. You don't have to be scared; I'll do it. I won't let someone else have you.”

"Really?" Peter whispers, turning back toward him.

"Yeah," Tony says. "Yeah, it's ok, I'll get you through this, I'll make it stop hurting. It's going to be ok, I promise.” He strokes his hand over Peter's head, gently, and leans in, presses his lips to Peter's forehead like he used to when Peter would wake up from a bad dream and want to be cuddled until he fell back asleep, protected. "I'll take care of you," he says, just like he used to say, "I'll keep you safe, I promise."

Peter shudders, biting his lip hard, and then lets his breath out in a long, shaky exhale.

Fuck, Tony thinks, fuck, he's actually going to do this, he's actually— ok, it's going to be ok, it is. “Alright," he says, as much to himself as to Peter, and stands up. Starts to unfasten his jeans. "How long have you been like this?" he asks.

Peter shakes his head, his eyes glued to Tony's crotch. "Don't know," he whispers, and then, when Tony shoves his pants off completely, his cock bobbing free, moans and arches up off the bed, pressing his heels and shoulders down into it, helplessly.

“We'll take that as too long," Tony says, and decides not to even bother taking off his shirt. “I'll be quick about it, ok? We'll get this over with as soon as possible." He crawls up onto the bed, hesitating a moment more before he lets his breath out in a huff and moves, settling back on his heels between Peter's thighs. He puts his hand on Peter's knee, rubs over it gently. "It's ok, kid," he says, "it's ok, I've got you." He looks up, and stops short.

Peter's looking at him, mouth gaping open, his eyes almost completely dark, flushed, sweaty, just— so pretty, so perfect; he's always thought Peter was going to be a handsome young man—already is, but when he fills out he's going to be beating them back with a stick—but this— this is like something out of an omega pinup, something too stunning to be real.

But he is real, this is real, is better and worse than a picture because he can smell Peter, can't possibly escape the scent his son is putting off. This is real, too real, too horribly fucking real, and he's doing this.

Heat flares up in him at that thought, flushing through his body and making his heart race, wanting, and he shudders, shoving that down as far and hard as he can, because this is  _ Peter,  _ this is his precious kid, he can't— he can't think of him like that, like someone Tony actually wants that way. He just has to get Peter through this and not think about how he has a gorgeous, desperate omega under him, not think about how much he wants to knot them, keep them.

"Ok," he says, and it's awful, awful how his voice has dropped a little, gone a little rougher, "I know this is the sort of thing you'd probably never want to tell me, but it's important, Peter. Have you ever done anything, had sex with anyone like this?"

Peter shakes his head, slowly, like it's taking a bit for him to process things, which— alright, he'd expected that. After all, Peter's a little shy still and has never really talked about someone in that way, and Tony's never— never smelled anything like that on him. Not unexpected, but not great.

"That's fine, kiddo," he says, "it's fine, we'll just— take it carefully. Very carefully. I'll make sure it doesn't hurt, I promise."

Peter doesn't even nod, doesn't even seem to be responding at all, falling hard into heat haze. Tony slides his hand down Peter's leg and softly, so softly, presses his fingers against Peter's ass.

Peter jerks and moans, shoving his hips up immediately, even though Tony's barely touched him, and more slick comes dripping out of him, all over Tony's hand. He's so, so wet already, which is— good, it's good, it's a good sign, it'll make this easier. "That's good, Peter," he says, his voice only shaking the smallest bit. "Good, you're doing good," and slowly, carefully, slides one finger into him.

It slips in so easily, ever so slick and soft and warm, and Peter whines, throwing his head back and arching, pressing down against Tony's hand. "Yes," he whispers, "yes, yes, yes."

Ok, Tony thinks, swallows, battering back the part of him that just wants to bend Peter in half and sink into him. Fast, he'd promised, and careful, and normally the two would be at odds; but with Peter this slick, it might be possible, he might be able to get this over with before he does something awful. More awful. Can it get more awful, he wonders.

He presses another finger in, just as effortlessly, just the slightest bit of pressure around them, until Peter clenches down suddenly, moving and pushing them further in. Tony sucks in a breath; fuck, he's tight when he does that. "Careful," he says, "come on kid, be gentle with yourself. We don't want this to hurt, remember?"

Peter just whines and rocks on his fingers. "Please," he says, “please, please Dad, I need more, I need it,  _ please.” _

Tony hesitates, but a moment later he's sliding in a third, as carefully as he can with Peter wriggling and fighting him, more slick dripping out and making it hard to keep any sort of control here. He doesn't know if he can get Peter to let him ease him into this, how long he'll let Tony open him up, because if not it's going to hurt when Tony knots him, and he desperately, desperately doesn't want to hurt Peter.

The answer is not long, as Peter's head tips up and he gives Tony this fucking— desperate, dazed look, and he's shaking slightly, little tiny tremors. "Dad, please," Peter begs, and there's just— he cannot listen to Peter beg him for this anymore.

He hooks his hands under Peter's ass and pulls him up a little, closer, resting on Tony's thighs, and Peter pulls his legs up a bit, unconsciously, spreading himself. There's slick all over his ass, all over Tony, and the smell of it all is hooking into him, making his thought feel thick and slow; no, no, he has to be careful.

He tries, he really does try as he sets the tip of his cock to Peter's hole, tries to slide in slow and easy, but he's barely in at all before Peter snaps his hips up and hooks his legs around Tony's waist and pulls him forward, hard, thrusting in all the way in one long, fast stroke.

Peter gasps, something almost pained and Tony freezes, his stomach lurching. "Peter?" he says, trying to pull back against the almost painfully tight grip of Peter's legs, "We ok, kiddo?"

He doesn't really get an answer, just ‘please' and Peter squirming, trying to fuck himself on Tony's cock.

"Hold on," Tony says, "hold on, Peter, you're doing fine, we’ll get there."

It's awful, the way it hits him, starts to flood him as he thrusts into Peter as slowly as Peter will let him; so fucking awful how his body responds to this, to having a needy, squirming omega under him, sweaty and slicking and stinking of heat, of want, begging, demanding to be knotted, to be made his. How it doesn't fucking matter that it's Peter, that it's his son, it's his goddamn sixteen year old  _ son  _ he's fucking, it doesn't matter and it's killing him, those conflicting feelings sliding together into something he can't even start to recognize, can't start to pick apart, every thought disrupted when Peter moans and whines and arches his back, ruts hard down onto him and pants as he begs.

"More," Peter whispers.

"Shhh," Tony says, "it's ok baby, it's ok, you're doing fine."

"More," Peter insists, "please, please Dad,  _ more." _

Oh god, fuck, he can't— “I don't want to hurt you," Tony says, and his hands are shaking against Peter's hips. Please, he thinks, don't make me hurt you, don't let me hurt you.

“Please, more," Peter pleads, and Tony closes his eyes and grips Peter a little tighter and his next thrust is harder, faster, Peter moaning as he buries himself, shuddering and rocking to meet him helplessly. "Dad," he whispers, “Dad, Dad, please."

"Ok," Tony tells him. "Ok kiddo, you've got this, I hear you. We'll get through this, you're doing great."

He lets his body take over a bit, lets himself go a little faster, a little harder, a little rougher, trying hard not to worry if it's hurting, if it will hurt after. Just trying to make it into what Peter wants, what he's begging for, trying to make sure Peter keeps making those desperate, hungry noises, trying to get Peter to come as soon as possible.

It's a mistake, it's a fucking mistake, because there are uglier, darker things that slide into his mind when he gives in a little. There's this thought, this sick, satisfied slide of pleasure, that this— this is his. This, this presentation, this first heat, first fuck, first first first, it's Tony's. He's the one that gets to have it and take it and give Peter these experiences, these firsts, no one else. No one who might hurt him or not care enough about him or leave him, think less of him for what he does when he can't think straight; no, it's him, and he loves Peter so much, his wonderful, perfect baby boy, loves him to death and won't ever think anything less about Peter for this, for anything. None of this is Peter's fault and he'll make him see that, make him understand that it's something that's wrong with Tony, because he can't stop feeling so gratified he gets this, these firsts. Gets this chance to take care of Peter and teach Peter and leave Peter with good memories, and no one else has it, no one else will ever get it, because there is only one first and it's his, his and  _ no one else's. _

And he's so horrifyingly pleased about that. So pleased with how Peter is responding to him, how beautifully Peter's opened up, is taking him, how Peter is being such a perfect omega. How he's going to be so perfect for someone, one day, and Tony's so proud of him, even as the thought of someone else having Peter burns in his chest.

"You're doing so good," he tells Peter, panting a little himself, and Peter looks at him, eyes wide and wet, unfocused. "You're being just perfect, kid, doing so well, you've got this," Peter shuddering, hard, clenching all around Tony. Tony gasps himself and on the next thrust he feels it, feels that resistance as his knot grows, how his next stroke is cut short, pulling at the edge of Peter's hole and not coming free.

"Yes, yes, _ yes," _ Peter chants breathlessly. "Yes, I need it, need your knot, please, please," tightening around Tony, the pressure pushing him closer and closer to coming, "need you, need you so much, Dad please, I need it, I need you, oh, please, _ please," _ and Tony can't, he cannot, cannot— 

"Fuck," he gasps, "Peter, I—" and then he's coming, feeling himself swell more and sink into place, unmovable and pulsing, coming in his kid, his omega.

It's so good, and too much, almost painful as Peter squirms, keeps rocking and twisting desperately with that tiny bit of give left, trying so hard to finish. "You're ok," Tony manages to rasp out, "go on, you've got this, you can do this. Just like that, baby, go on, come for your alpha."

Peter sobs, shivers all over and then he's coming, silent, his whole body arching up between where his legs are still wrapped around Tony's waist and his head, pressed back into the bed, one hand still fisted in the sheets, tearing into them, flinging the other out, reaching for something, anything. Tony catches it with his own and holds on as Peter comes and comes and comes, so fucking hard and long and so tight around Tony it hurts, enough that Tony has to bite his lip and hold his breath not to make a sound.

Peter collapses, suddenly, finally, like his strings have been cut, completely limp, his legs sagging out from Tony's waist, head lolling to the side, even as his ass keeps clenching around Tony's knot, milking it relentlessly.

Tony kind of wants to collapse himself, kind of wants to find somewhere to hide while he freaks the fuck out about what just happened, but he can't because— well, he's knotted, but also because Peter's still going to need help, going to need some reassurance and taking care of and if Tony's gone this far, he's not going to give up and bail now. No way is he going to leave his kid to try and figure out how to deal with something terrifying on his own, not again.

It's not the most comfortable, like this, his legs going numb as he keeps kneeling, half Peter's weight resting on them as well, but he doesn't— it feels like too much to lean forward and drape himself all over Peter, like that's some line he shouldn't cross. So he sits, and waits, running one hand gently up and down the length of Peter's side, soothing. He hopes so, at least.

Peter's head is tilted to the side, lax, Tony carefully, carefully not looking at his neck. He turns it a little more after a moment, like he's trying to hide; he must be coming out of it a bit, Tony thinks, enough to be horribly embarrassed about all of this. He winces.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, "it's ok, you did great, you're handling this really well, you know."

Peter makes a sharp, short little noise, a tremor running through him, and then whimpers. Fuck, fuck, is he— is he hurting, did Tony hurt him after all?

"Peter," he says, softly, urgently, "are you ok? Are you hurting, does something hurt, what's wrong?" What isn't, he thinks, how can he expect Peter to answer that?

Peter just shakes his head, mute, but twitches again, shit.

"Peter, please," Tony pleads. "Please, did I hurt you?"

"No," Peter whispers, so tiny, barely audible. "You didn't, I just— I'm just— I don't know, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, it felt good and I feel good but I just, I want to cry and I feel like I can't stop it and I don't, I don't want to but I  _ can't—” _ He breaks off, taking a huge, gulping breath.

"Oh, hey," Tony says, "no, that's ok, kid, it's not weird at all, there's nothing wrong with you. It's just hormones, Peter, just, everything flooding you and dropping and messing with your brain, you're fine. Go ahead, don't fight it so hard, it's alright."

"It is?" Peter whispers, and Tony feels like his heart is breaking, hearing Peter so unsure and scared, on the edge of tears and trying to hide it, all the awful memories that brings up.

"It is," he tells him, trying for soothing, reaching forward and gently tipping Peter's face towards him. He smiles at Peter when Peter meets his eyes, and it's probably a little wobbly but it seems to help. "It's normal, so, so normal, even alphas get it. It's ok, go ahead and cry and get it out and over with; you'll feel better after, I promise."

It's not that easy, of course, and Peter still fights it, ducks his gaze again and closes his eyes and shakes with how hard he's still trying not to, but it's breaking out anyway, short little breaths and tears slowly trickling down his temples.

"Oh, baby," Tony says, stricken, and thank god, his knot's gone down enough he can gently, carefully detach them from each other, lying down next to Peter and grabbing him, bringing him in against his chest and holding him tightly. "It's ok, it's going to be ok, I promise."

Peter shudders once more and then buries his head against Tony's shoulder and sobs, like he's eight again and Flash told him he didn't want to friends with such a freak anymore, like he's eleven and fell out of a tree and is covered in bruises, like he's fifteen and clinging to Tony after the fight on the beach and apologizing over and over and over, like every time he's ever been so miserable that he wants nothing more than to just run to his dad and hide and cry himself out.

Tony holds onto him and curls around Peter as best he can, like he used to, rocks a little and keeps up a steady stream of whispered reassurances, that Peter's ok, that everything is going to be ok, that Dad's got him, will keep him safe, always.

And Tony knows, he knows, just like he'd told Peter, that this isn't anything Tony did, it's not because he hurt Peter or broke Peter with how wrong this is; it just is, but it hurts all the same, hurts so much to hear his kid cry like this and not be able to stop it, to fix it.

Peter cries and cries, soaking Tony’s t-shirt and eventually crying himself out, still huddled close. "How we doing?" Tony asks softly, when Peter's sniffling has mostly stopped.

"A little better," Peter whispers, after a long, nerve wracking pause. "Sorry."

"Hey, no, what did I tell you, kid?" Tony says. "Perfectly normal, not your fault even a bit."

"Not just—" Peter starts. "I mean." He sniffs again. "I'm sorry about all of this, that, that I made you do this, that I didn't prepare, that I'm— that I'm an omega, you must be so disappointed."

"What? " Tony says, startled. "Why would I— of course I'm not disappointed, Peter. I can't think why I would be, there's no reason on earth for me to be disappointed in you, much less because you presented as an omega. And the rest— we all make mistakes, you know that. You've seen enough of mine, haven't you?"

"You don't mind?" Peter whispers, and really, Tony doesn't know where he's gotten this from, Tony’s never been one of those gender essentialists or even expressed any sort of preference, for what Peter might be or for himself— Peter's mom was a beta, after all. Wait. Maybe that had something to do with it? Oh god, had Peter decided Tony didn't like omegas, so much that he wouldn't even mate with one?

"Of course I don't mind," Tony says, firmly. “Why would I mind having such a smart, amazing omega for a son? You're great, kiddo; you're always going to be—always have been—and nothing changes that." He hesitates. "Are— are you disappointed?"

"I don't know," Peter mutters. "I didn't really— I don't know what I expected. I don't know how I feel about anything right now; I feel weird, like I'm not— like I'm all pieces, I don't know."

He shivers, and presses a little closer to Tony. "I feel," he starts, "I feel kinda shaky. And uh, I can't— I can't focus, and I'm really warm, it's really hot in here."

Another wave, Tony thinks, has just opened his mouth to tell him that when Peter twitches and catches his breath, his cock stiffening along Tony's thigh. "Oh," Peter says. "Oh, it's, I'm— oh god, I don't know, I don't want—" he breaks off with a whine and rolls his hips against Tony, shaking.

"I know," Tony says, "one should be enough, right? It sucks, I get it. We'll get you through this though. I promise, it'll get better and then it'll be done, one, maybe two more, ok? You can do this." God, he wishes it was just the one, wishes it was only one time he’d have to fight those awful wants inside himself. 

Peter nods shakily against him, head still hidden in Tony's chest. Tony starts to pull away a little, get them into some sort of more comfortable position, but Peter moans and clings to him, his grip unbreakable.

"Please," he whispers. "Don't let go, Dad, don't—"

"Peter—"

"Please, I want— this is better," Peter says, "this is better, it's more— it's safer, it's warmer, it feels like it's almost real; please, Dad, don't let me go."

"Shhh, I hear you," Tony says. "Just, can you turn around, kiddo? I won't let go, I promise, but this won’t work at all for what you're gonna want in a bit."

"Ok," Peter says, unmoving. Tony dips his head to settle against the top of Peter’s, disturbing his hair even more. 

“I won’t let you go,” he promises again. “I won’t ever let you go, baby,” and that suddenly has connotations that sicken him, even as he  _ wants, _ bright and hot. “I’ll always, always be here,” he says.

“Ok,” Peter says again, and then he's wiggling around in Tony's arms, Tony loosening them just enough for Peter to move.

"There," Tony says when Peter's settled, his back pressed into Tony's chest, Tony's arms tight around him, and at least it’s not skin to skin, however much of a small, useless shield his shirt might be. "See? That's better, right?"

Peter nods, and then he's pushing back against Tony more, Tony's cock nestled along the cleft of his ass, still wet with slick.

There's no good, safe place for Tony to rest his head like this, though; either it's on the bed, his nose pressed to the back of Peter's neck, right up along those fine little hairs, right where his bare skin just screams to be marked, or he can push up a bit and nestle his face into the curve of Peter's neck, dangerously close to the bonding gland.

He tries for neither, as he pushes carefully into Peter, Peter dragging one leg forward to let him sink in even more, almost falling on his front, Tony half wrapped around him. Tries, as awkward as it is, until Peter makes the decision for him, rips it right out of his hands, tilting his head to the side and exposing it, displaying it, the skin pulling tight over his bond point, flushed pink, dark, swelling just enough to feel, if Tony was stupid enough to run his fingers over it.

Tony doesn't even mean to, doesn't even want to, fuck; this is Peter, this is his goddamn kid, he has no business putting his mouth anywhere near his bonding gland, but his brain isn't running the show right now, just holding on and trying to steer, screaming as he leans in and nuzzles against that soft, warm spot, smearing that sheen of oil, as he opens his mouth and licks over it, the thick, bitter taste coating his mouth, turning sweet and mouthwatering. 

His mouth is on it before he even thinks, teeth delicately pressed into the thin skin around the point, and  _ thank god, _ he stops then, he wrestles back some self control and stops; fuck, god, this is his son, what is  _ wrong _ with him?

Peter moans and settles more firmly back against him, and Tony realizes he's been fucking into Peter the whole while, not even registering it, so focused on Peter's bond point.

He  _ can't. _

"Please," Peter begs, yanking his head even further to the side, baring his neck, flaunting it. "Please, yes."

No, Tony thinks desperately, no, no, no. He won't, but he can't pull away either, just can't seem to make himself take his mouth off Peter. He groans, licks over that spot again, and then tilts his head away, lips landing on a less dangerous patch of skin.

He lets himself, because it's better than giving in to that other urge, lets himself nip and suck marks all over the span of Peter's shoulder, all along his neck, every bit of skin surrounding his bond point. He can have all of that, he tells himself, can display his marks on all of that as long as he doesn't on that one, single spot.

It's still hard, though, it's still so, so fucking hard. Every single lust driven instinct is screaming at him, pushing at him so hard. Yeah,  _ he  _ cares that it's his son, that it's Peter, but his instincts still don't give a fuck. It's almost worse, in some weird, twisted way, because Peter is already his, Peter already belongs to him, in his house and under his influence and of his blood, of his body, so much of him tied up with Tony already, but not claimed, not bonded. Everything in him protests that, wants to fucking fix it and make it right, make it proper, take that last single step and claim this omega that's already almost his.

No, Tony thinks frantically, shaking with the effort not to touch it, no, he won't.

He should, his hindbrain whispers insistently. Bite him, bite him,  _ bite him. _

Bite him, breed him, bond him, a well worn litany, because fuck, yes, he can almost feel Peter's skin giving under his teeth, he can almost feel how Peter's abdomen would swell; he's at such a perfect age for that, young and fertile and healthy, and it'd be so right to bond him, to make him completely, irreversibly Tony's, make it impossible for anyone to ever take his son away from him.

No, Tony screams at himself, horrified, the sick rising tide of disgust giving him a brief moment of clarity. No, as he pulls his mouth away from Peter's skin, gasping for air, never mind that it's heavy with Peter's scent and just as enticing, fuck, no, not his Peter, he's not going to fucking ruin his baby boy.

And Peter is not helping one bit, keeping his bond point exposed, begging mindlessly for Tony to bite him, bond him, “Please, please Dad, I want it, I need it,  _ please.” _

He can't stay like this, or he'll lose, he will lose control and he  _ can't. _

Tony's panting as he pulls back a little more, as he shoves Peter forward, onto his stomach, and presses himself down on top of Peter, smothering and suffocating and that's terrible, that's— he doesn't want that, he doesn't want Peter to feel like he can't get away, like he's trapped, even though he couldn’t really ever trap Peter, but Peter just moans and thrusts back against him harder. Tony reaches up, curls his fingers in Peter's hair and yanks his head over, tilts it the other way and lets himself bury his face in that curve of Peter’s neck instead, safer, just skin.

Peter whines, pitifully. "Daaaaad," he says, drawing it out, like Tony's told him he can't have something silly and inconsequential—a new toy, a second dessert, an extra hour in the workshop—not a fucking bond. "Dad, please."

"No, baby," Tony says harshly. "No, we can't,  _ I can't—" _

"Don't you want me?" Peter says. "Please, Dad, don't you want me, what did I do, what can I do, please."

"Peter," Tony says, shivering, mouthing along this safe, flawless skin, "kid, no, you're good, you're doing so good." Peter shudders under him, tightening. "Doing so good for me," Tony says, "so, so good, you haven’t done anything wrong," half muffled against Peter's skin, and it's like all his self control has gone to keeping him there, keeping him from switching sides and sinking his teeth into that soft, flooded point, because the things that come out of his mouth are appalling.

"So good," he tells Peter, "doing so well, taking me so well, you're so perfect, such a good omega. Opening up to me so easily, so nicely, just beautiful, Peter." He pauses, nipping at Peter’s neck, worrying at it. “Kid,” he groans, “oh baby, you’re amazing, just wanna keep you like this, wanna make you all mine. You’d be so good for me, Peter, so good, such a wonderful omega, I just know it.” Appalling, and awful, and he still wants it, means it, knows that even in this daze where nothing seems real.

Peter gasps as Tony's knot slides into him, as it swells, and Tony fucking comments on that as well, of course he does. "So good," he says, "look at you taking my knot like that, taking it so well. You're just made so well for it, just made for me to fit into."

"Dad," Peter whispers, "Dad, _ Dad,  _ please," and he's trying to turn his head to the other side again, desperate.

"No," Tony tells him, "you can do this, you can get through this; you're taking everything else so well, being so, so good for me, you can do this too. You can, kiddo, you can do this for me."

"No,” Peter moans, but he stops trying to tilt his head, stretches it the other way and displays the safe side as though it had his point, and Tony kisses the skin where it would be, grateful.

"See,” he says, working into Peter, slow and short as his knot grows. "I knew you could, of course you could, I'm so proud of you."

Peter comes on that note—maybe because Tony said that, maybe because he was just already there, fuck if Tony knows—but he comes so hard, thrashing under Tony, digging his hands into the sheets and biting down on them too, arching up hard enough to lift Tony a little, even, and god, the feel of him clenching around Tony, the sound of his breathing, ragged and muffled, it's too much, too much for any rational part of Tony to override. He shudders and shoves in hard, one last time, closing his teeth on Peter's shoulder and coming, tightening his arms around Peter.

He pants mindlessly into Peter's skin, slowly relaxing his jaw, letting Peter's skin slip from his mouth. Fuck, that was closer than he even likes to consider, he thinks, looking at the mark he's left on Peter, horrifyingly, frighteningly close. What if he’d given in, he thinks, shuddering, what if he’d let Peter turn his head and still done that, still sunk his teeth into Peter’s skin? Oh god, what would he have done, why does he still want that?

Peter's still clenching around Tony's knot, instinctive, even as the rest of his body starts to relax, just a little, before he sucks in a sharp breath and tenses again. He whines, wordless, unhappy. "Baby?" Tony asks. "What's wrong, what is it?"

Peter just shakes his head and whimpers, grabbing Tony's hand and pressing it against his stomach, still tight and twitching and— oh, aw, jeez, Tony thinks, poor kid, came so hard he cramped up.

"Here," Tony says, wrapping his arm around Peter just above that spot, and rolls him onto his side, leaning back against Tony. He spreads his hand over the tense muscles of Peter's stomach and presses down; Peter hisses and shivers, but doesn't fight it, just curls in a little and lets Tony work his hand in small circles, slowly soothing it away.

By the time it's gone, Peter's come out of his heat haze and is limp, curled in on himself around Tony's hands.

"Peter?" Tony asks. "Are you ok? Did—" he stops, because it's stupid to ask if Peter hurts, he thinks, brushing his thumb over the bite mark he'd left, of course it hurt.

"I'm fine," Peter says, though it doesn't really sound quite true, something off about it, like when he’d told Tony he wouldn’t go out without the suit, a tone Tony’s never going to ignore again.

"You sure?" Tony says. "You can tell me, if there's anything at all wrong, kid. You can, always. 

"I know," Peter says, but it's also just as small and slightly false as before.

Fuck, there's something, something wrong, Tony knows, but he can't pry it out of Peter like this, he can't do anything about it except wait and watch, and— and what is he going to do, anyway, if it's what he fears and the thing that is wrong is, well, all of this, the fucking nightmare of being knotted by your dad for your first heat. The shame, the horrible embarrassment Peter has to be feeling, for how he’d begged and presented and whined about not being bonded by his fucking  _ dad, _ even if none of it is Peter’s fault. 

Jesus, he thinks, panicky, and he can almost feel the bile rising up in his mouth, he's— the second Peter's heat is over he’s going to have to get one of those emergency contraceptives—fuck, he’s going to have to figure out how to make it work for Peter’s biology, oh no—because his awful, instinct driven brain was right about that much; Peter is right in his prime for being bred, and if that— he can't even think it. God, he wants to throw up.

His knot shrinks a little after that, sliding out of Peter with wet, sickening sounds. He glances down and just— the sight of his own come streaking his cock, leaking out of Peter, all mixed in with Peter's slick— 

Yes, he thinks, and then no,  _ no. _

"Hey," he says softly, "you probably feel pretty gross, huh?"

Peter nods shortly.

It's pointless to try and get him into a shower, since Tony's sure there's at least one, maybe two more rounds left. "I'm going to go get something to clean up with a little," he tells Peter, "Ok? You going to be alright?"

Peter just nods again, tight, contained.

He hesitates, worried.

"I'm fine," Peter says.

He doesn’t believe it for a second. "Alright, kiddo," Tony says finally, and stands up.

He can’t even look at himself in the mirror as he strips off his shirt, still damp, soaked with sweat and tears and— other things, god, Can’t possibly face himself, he thinks, not with what he’s done, what’s he’s been thinking while fucking doing it, because— no, fuck, no he’s not going to think it. 

He’s not going to indulge any of that bullshit one second longer, he decides as he soaks a washcloth and runs it over his face, then wipes off his cock, his legs where Peter’s slick has dripped, sticky. He is better than this. 

He swallows, hard. Please, please let him be better than this. 

Peter’s curled up while he was gone, into a tight little ball, all tucked in on himself. “Peter?” Tony says, “Something wrong?” More wrong, his brain supplies. 

He sits on the bed next to Peter and peers over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of Peter’s face, see what’s going on. “I brought you a washcloth,” he says, “let's get you a little cleaned up, ok?”

Still, Peter doesn’t uncurl even a bit, hiding like he thinks if he can’t see Tony, Tony can’t see him. Tony leans over a little more, brushing his fingers across the top of Peter's head. “Peter?” he whispers.

Peter shudders, curling even tighter for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, broken and thick and oh, oh no, no, Peter’s crying, still and silent and awful, tears pouring down his face. 

“Kid,” Tony says, and he feels so sick, because this is his fault, this is so his fault, the awful things he’s done to his poor kid, to Peter, who may have asked but never _ asked  _ for this, who couldn’t help himself and so Tony should have, fuck, fuck. “This isn’t your fault,” he says, “none of this is your fault, you have to believe that, Peter. It’s not at all your fault.”

“It’s not,” he insists as Peter just shakes his head violently. “It’s really, really not, I know you didn’t want this, anyone would know you didn’t want this, but you didn’t do anything wrong, ok? I’m the one who fucked up here, and I’m the one that should be—that is—sorry.”

“No,” Peter whispers, and then, louder, almost— angry? “No, no, no!” he says, half shouts, turning onto his back and glaring at Tony. “It’s not,” he insists, “it’s not your fault. I asked you, I begged you, and you didn’t want to see me hurt; I know you, Dad. I know you can’t stand that and I told you I was scared and I was but I  _ know you. _ I made you do it and I know you didn’t want to, I know you hated it and are going to hate me and I should have been better and let you call a professional, I should have.”

“No,” Tony says back, “I don’t hate you, baby, I could never hate you, that’s not how it works. You didn’t make me do anything; I’m a fucking adult, I chose to— to get you through this, and I should have been the one to insist on getting someone, because this— I’ve fucked it up, I fucked you up, god, I don’t know how you’re going to get over the— the sheer wrongness of this, but I promise, Peter, I promise I’ll do whatever I can to make it right.”

Peter closes his eyes, brings his hands up to rub at his face, smearing the tears. “You don’t understand,” he chokes out. “You don’t get it. I made you do it. If you— if you hadn’t said yes, I still would have made you and you wouldn’t have been able to stop me.” He pulls his hands away and stares blankly up at the ceiling, and Tony doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on here. “I made you,” Peter repeats, his face crumpling, horribly, “because I wanted it.”

Tony's brain just freezes for a moment, because he doesn’t even know how to begin processing that. He opens his mouth, not knowing what he’s going to say, but Peter beats him to it. 

“You don’t even know,” Peter says, “you have no clue how many times, how many fucking times I thought about something like this, I dreamed about something like this, I— I got off thinking about, about you fucking me and knotting me and claiming me and wanting me and— so, so many times, Dad, you have no idea, you don’t know how bad I wanted this and—” he sucks in a breath, a gasp like he can’t breathe, his words starting to run together. “I wanted it—want it—so much, I want you so badly and it’s wrong, I know it’s wrong, it’s so, so wrong, it’s disgusting, I know but I want it and I can’t stop wanting it and I’m just— I’m fucked up, there’s something so wrong with me that I want this; I feel like I’m gonna die if I can’t have it and that’s so messed up, I’m so— I’m so messed up, so disgusting, I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry—”

He curls in on himself again, covering his face he breaks, sobbing into his hands, little broken fragments of ‘sorry’ still slipping out, and Tony has no fucking idea what to do about— everything Peter just said, but his kid, sobbing like his heart is breaking? That he can do something about, that he has to do something about. 

“Peter,” he says, gathering Peter up, “baby, you’re not— it’s ok, it’s ok.” Peter shakes his head, and Tony sighs, softly. “It’s going to be ok,” he says. “It is, it really is. Here,” he says, shifting until he’s sort of propped up against the headboard, “come here, kiddo.”

Peter curls up against him, clinging and stiff and still sobbing. “I’ve got you,” he tells Peter, and he means it, he always means it, he’ll always, always mean it, whatever it ends up meaning. “I’m not mad,” he says. “I’m not disgusted—you’re not disgusting—you’re not fucked up, it’s ok. It’s— whatever this is, we’re going to figure it out, ok? We’ll figure it out together, I promise.”

“It’s wrong,” Peter insists, but he clings tighter.

Yeah, Tony thinks, god, it’s so wrong, and that— it’s like an echo, it’s so familiar, the same refrain Tony’s been telling himself this whole time. This desperate reminder of why this is so wrong, so, so wrong, the desperate attempt to pretend that knowing it’s wrong is enough to make the want go away, to pretend that there isn’t any want at all, that there isn’t so much fucking want it’s choking him.

Peter’s shaking against him, and— and Tony's shaking more than a little himself, because he’s been trying so hard but it’s true, it’s horribly, disgustingly true, that he wants this, that he wants Peter, he wants his fucking son so badly. He can’t even pick apart how badly he wants to keep this, wants to go ahead and take Peter and claim him and have Peter be his omega and never, ever have to let his baby boy go. 

God, he’s fucked. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, hoarsely, “yeah, it’s wrong,” and Peter starts against him. “It’s— it’s really, really fucking wrong,” he says, “so wrong, but— it’s—” oh god, oh fuck, he’s not better than this, is he, god, no, “if that means you’re fucked up, baby, then— then so am I, I guess.”

Peter goes very, very still in his arms. “What?” he whispers, just a breath of sound. 

Fuck, what is he doing, Tony thinks, this is his son, this is his fucking sixteen year old  _ son  _ who’s never had a heat before, never been fucked, never had a relationship, he can’t— he can’t do this to Peter. 

“Dad?” 

Tony tries to draw in a breath and only manages about half of one. “I liked this,” he says, sickened by himself. “I— I was glad I was the one who got to help you through this, that I was one the one that got to be your first, I liked it and I wanted it and I should have told you no but I didn’t, Peter. I didn’t.” 

He chokes out something like a laugh. “I didn’t because I wanted you,” he says. “I fucking— I wanted you, I want you, I don’t want to let some other alpha have you, fuck, this is so— so fucking wrong.”

Peter pulls back, enough that he can look up, can catch Tony's gaze. “You— you mean that?” he says. “Dad, please, do you really mean that?”

Tony looks at him, at his wonderful, amazing kid, his son that he’s so, so proud of, that he loves so much, clever and smart and brave and strong and funny and— and he— he looks so hopeful, so horribly hopeful, like this nightmare of a thing Tony wants is something to be happy about, something good. 

He reaches forward, his hand shaking as he curves it around the side of Peter’s face. “Yeah, kiddo,” he says, because he’s fucked, he’s completely fucked; all he’s ever, ever wanted was to make sure Peter is happy, and even if he’s pretty sure this will end up doing the opposite somewhere down the line, right now the look on Peter’s face is— is what he wants to see, over and over again. “I mean it.”

“Oh my god,” Peter says. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god, Dad—” he presses forward, his eyes on Tony's, mouth almost against his, and then he hesitates, eyes widening, his breath ghosting against Tony's lips. 

Tony hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t even let himself think of it, because that— that was a line, ok, that was a different kind of line that he couldn’t cross, not if he was trying to pretend this was just helping Peter, was just instincts. A line he could not,  _ could not _ cross. 

Never had a relationship, Tony thinks, maybe a little hysterically, never been kissed, and that, that he can take care of. That’s another first he can take, can claim.

He tilts his head down a little, closes that tiny, tiny distance, and then he’s kissing his son, he’s kissing Peter, he’s crossed that fucking line and there’s no going back from that. 

Peter kisses him back eagerly, messily, like he can’t help himself and can’t stop himself. Tony lets him for a bit before he pulls back; “Shh,” he says, “it's ok, slow down a little. I’m not—” oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“Dad,” Peter says, darting in and pressing a chaste little kiss against his lips, and really, he should really, really be telling Peter to call him something else, call him Tony at least, but he’s not. He’s not going to. 

They settle into that, lazy kissing for the sake of it, that slows and slows, not going anywhere but here, Peter slowly picking things up, learning the little tricks Tony shows him, figuring out what Tony likes, what he likes. Tony tries to let it overwhelm him, let it drown out everything else, drown out the frantic, frightened thoughts of what might happen when they wake up tomorrow, if Peter will have changed his mind, will hate him for what he’s done. 

Tries so hard to silence all those thoughts screaming: what is this going to do to Peter? How could this possibly ever work; what are they going to do when it doesn’t, what would they do if someone finds out? How fucking badly is he going to warp Peter; why can’t he make himself stop when he knows how wrong, how bad, how nightmarishly awful this is?

Peter’s mouth is warm and soft and so good, and if it doesn’t completely silence those thoughts, it comes close. 

Slowly, things shift, Peter pushing harder into their kisses, running his hands all over Tony, closer and closer. When Tony tilts Peter’s head back, gently, he's gone a little glazed, flushed all over again. “Hey,” Tony tells him, quietly, “last one, I think. You ready, kiddo?”

“Please,” Peter whispers, “Dad, please, can we— like this, I want you close, I want to kiss you, I don’t want that to stop.”

“It doesn’t have to stop,” Tony promises him; kisses him, just to underline it. Slide his hands down Peter’s back, trailing over his spine, across his ass, slipping his fingers between his cheeks and just barely brushing against Peter’s hole. 

They never had gotten around to cleaning him up, and his ass and thighs are still wet, sticky with slick and come, both still sliding out of him as he wiggles against Tony's fingers, pressing at them and pushing himself open a little, Tony's fingers slipping in, feeling that gape. 

“Fuck, Peter,” Tony says. “You’re so—” shakes his head, unable to say it. 

“What?” Peter says. “Dad, what? What were you going to say?” He bites his lip, tilts his head to the side just a little, flashing his bond point. “I want to know.”

Tony shudders. This is going to kill him, is going to utterly kill him. If it isn’t the mob with rape charges and the complete, final destruction of his reputation, ready to lynch him and burn Iron Man to the ground, then it’s going to be Peter, looking like this, acting like this, finding all those little omega tricks and using every last one on Tony, like Tony isn’t already completely fucked over. 

“You’re so open,” he says, low. “So well fucked already, so stretched out by my knot, I could just slide right into you.” Wants to, he thinks, shifting his fingers inside Peter, feeling how soft and smooth he is, really, really wants to. 

Peter’s eyes go wide, his mouth dropping open a little. “Yes,” he whispers, “yes, you could, Dad, you should.”

“You’re right,” Tony tells him, can’t help telling him, and Peter moans, rocking forward, his cock sliding alongside Tony's. He moves when Tony pulls at him, and nods when Tony asks him if he's ready, and moans again when Tony guides him down, carefully, slowly letting Peter sink down onto him. 

“There,” Tony says, and kisses him. “See? What did I tell you, we can still kiss.” 

Peter scrunches his eyes shut, his nose wrinkling. Smiles, and Tony's heart skips, because it’s so familiar, so innocent, completely divorced from what they’re doing. Peter’s smiles, cute and wide and a little dorky sometimes, belong in a space where Tony is better than this, where Tony said no and didn’t fuck his son and didn’t kiss him and want him. This smile, this is the same smile, the same expression, that Peter makes when Tony tells an especially lame joke, or teases Peter about something he’s slightly embarrassed by, or, apparently, says something blindly obvious during sex. Fuck. 

It’s the first time Peter has smiled since Tony walked into his bedroom. 

_ Fuck.  _

“But I think we’d better test it,” Tony says, just to get that smile again, and he does, right before Peter leans in kisses him some more. 

It’s slow this time, slow and easy and quiet, Peter barely even fucking himself on Tony's cock and Tony not even attempting to make him. They can get there like this, Peter rocking slowly, clenching and squirming a little, kissing Tony and clinging to him and completely flooding the air with scent, heat and happiness in equal measures. 

Tony lets his hands wander—because there’s no point in not, not now—touching Peter all over, everywhere he can reach. Peter rewards him—isn’t that an awful awful thing to call it, he thinks, but maybe it’s fitting, since everything else about this is awful—for each one that’s just right, with a tiny, breathed out word. 

“Dad,” Peter sighs when Tony drags his nails down his back; “oh, god, Dad,” when he tips Peter back a bit and leans down to close his mouth around a hard, dark nipple; “Dad, please, please,” when he wraps his hand around Peter’s cock and strokes him, gently. 

He hadn’t, the previous times, because he’d been thinking so hard about lines he couldn’t cross, rules he couldn’t break even if he’d already broken the most important one, but all the rules are broken now; there’s no point, no fucking point in  _ not  _ anything. Why shouldn’t he get his son off like this, hand wrapped around Peter’s cock, feeling it twitch and pulse while Peter shudders, moans, clenching around Tony? Why not, when he’s already managed to ruin every last thing? 

Why not, when his beautiful baby boy looks like that after he’s come, limp and leaning back, Tony’s arms around him the only things keeping him upright and on Tony's cock, his head draped back as he pants, displaying his bond point so prominently, even darker than before, almost red against Peter’s pale skin. 

Why not, Tony thinks, despairingly, why shouldn’t he pull Peter close, his hand cradling the back of his son’s head, and nuzzle at that damp, oily spot, what does it matter if it’s risky, if he might give in and bite, give in and bond? What does anything fucking matter now? 

“Dad,” Peter gasps when Tony opens his mouth and sets his teeth into Peter’s skin, framing his bond point gently, carefully. “Oh, please, please, I want you to, I want you to.”

I know, Tony thinks, unable to speak around his mouthful, sinking his teeth in further, I know, you want it and you think it will make you happy, and I just want to make you happy, baby.

It’s only a heat bond, he tells himself, only a bite bond, only sealed in spit. It’s not forever, it’s not unbreakable, and maybe, maybe no one will know, will guess what’s happened when Peter goes back to school and someone sees it, red turning slowly to silvery white, scabs to scars. Maybe no one will remember how Peter went home alone, how no one can think of someone Peter might have gone to, how a professional would never bond a client; maybe no one will put two and two together and come up with four. 

It’s not like his scent isn’t already on Peter, already overlaying Peter’s. And if it’s a little stronger now, well— it’s a little old fashioned, a little overbearing to be marking his son off limits so strongly, at this age, but it’s not questionable. Not yet. 

Maybe no one ever has to know. 

Why would they, Tony thinks in those seconds before he comes, as Peter cries out under his teeth, rocking back onto his knot with a sharp, short yes, why would anyone consider that Tony—as terrible as his reputation has been at various points—consider that Tony, that Iron Man, could have possibly fucked his own son, his own underage son, and bonded him? Who the fuck would ever suspect something so incredibly awful of him? Would even believe it, if someone accused him?

Please, he thinks, licking Peter’s blood from his mouth, please, please, as Peter nuzzles into his neck, whispering thank you, over and over, please, I don’t deserve it but if there’s any, any luck left for me, please let them never suspect. 

Please, he thinks, as Peter drifts off, snuggling closer in his sleep, this is the worst thing I have ever, ever done, but please, don’t let me, this, hurt Peter. 

Please. 


End file.
